


Hydrangea Hitman

by GalacticGoat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: But like it happened in the past pffft, Cemeteries, Flowers, Humanstuck, M/M, Mentions of School Bombing, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, i honestly don't know what else to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:02:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticGoat/pseuds/GalacticGoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>( inspired by this tumblr prompt: http://awful-aus.tumblr.com/post/116941769918/awful-au-196 )</p><p>You’ve been called a plethora of unsavory things in your lifetime. “Aggressive,” “loud,” “quick to jump to conclusions,” and simply a “massive grimy butthole.” You handle these jabs with a surreal amount of grace by figuratively sidestepping them, and then going to town on their flingers’ egos. Your tolerance for insults (sans those from yourself) is nil, and anyone that tries to test it better be ready to receive the ass-kicking of a lifetime.</p><p>But still. If there is even one thing you will admit, <i>one</i> thing you must succumb to the reality of, it is this: </p><p>Karkat Vantas is a stingy piece of shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hydrangea Hitman

You’ve been called a plethora of unsavory things in your lifetime. “Aggressive,” “loud,” “quick to jump to conclusions,” and simply a “massive grimy butthole.” You handle these jabs with a surreal amount of grace, by figuratively sidestepping them and then going to town on their flingers’ egos. Your tolerance for insults (sans those from yourself) is nil, and anyone that tries to test it better be ready to receive the ass-kicking of a lifetime.

But still. If there is even _one_ thing you will admit, _one_ thing you must succumb to the reality of, it is this:

Karkat Vantas is a stingy piece of shit.

You’re carefully brushing the dirt off the ends of your newly acquired flowers, cursing the fact that the roots of the plants decided they were coming along for the ride. This wouldn’t be an issue if you had gone to the local Harris Teeter. But that costs cash. Yanking a handful of flowers from some stranger’s garden is way more cost effective, and while the end result may not be as pretty, you don’t think your brother’s corpse is really going to mind that much. It’s the thought that counts, anyways.

Glancing behind, you feel a twinge of guilt at the damage you dealt to the garden. A gaping hole, revealing rich, dark soil is the only empty space in the thriving area. The spot looks so out of place that you have half a mind to cram the fruits of your (minimal) labor right back where they came from, but that’d just be plain stupid. You’ve done this before, so it’s not like you don’t know that the hole isn’t going to remain empty, or anything. Without fail, new flowers are placed in the garden, right in the spot you yanked out their predecessors. Maybe the garden’s owner thinks you’re some problematic deer, and has resigned themself to your ways. Whatever.

With a brief tug at your shirt’s collar in a desperate attempt to unfasten it from your sticky skin, you resume your tread towards the cemetery. You try to keep up a steady pace. It’s not like you’re in a rush to see Kankri-- He’s certainly not going anywhere any time soon-- but you really want to be back home in time to make a more elaborate dinner for yourself before hitting the books. An asshole’s got to spoil himself _sometimes_ , you know. Especially with finals coming up.

Gravel crunches underfoot, and you find it easy to get lost in your thoughts. The walk to the cemetery is pretty serene. It’s a short distance away from you and your dad’s house on foot, and there’s only a sparse amount of homes that line the path before the surroundings recede into open fields. You go to visit your older brother’s grave every once in a while. There’s no schedule for your drop ins, you simply go when you feel like it. You and Kankri never saw eye-to-eye when he was still around, but now that he’s not able to swamp you in self-righteous monologues, you find it much easier to spill your guts to him. Your trips have become a method of emotional cleansing, as strange as it may seem. If Kankri was alive and could hear you state that, he’d probably consider it rude of you and claim that you were taking advantage of his death. He found a lot of things you did to be offensive. What a pompous dickscab.

You still miss him though.

The word “unexpected” doesn’t even cut it when you hear a quiet cough behind you, quickly followed by a tap to your shoulder. You whip around as quickly as possible-- _when the fuck did some asshole manage to sneak up behind you?!_

The first thing you learn about this guy is that he’s tall. Six and a half feet of gangly limbs and freckled, dark skin. His curly hair has been sheared into a side-swept undercut, and you have to bite back the impulse to ask whether it’s naturally blonde or he bleached it. He could have had the hipster-y crotchblister aesthetic going for him with his ridiculous technicolor headphones, black skinny jeans, and mirror aviators, but his white T-shirt is sprinkled with holes, sweat spots, and dirt stains, condemning him to the “dirty tool” look. He’s not dealing with the heat any better than you are-- he’s furiously wiping sweat off his upper lip with one hand while fanning himself with the other. You nervously pass your bundle of flowers back and forth between each of your own hands while waiting for him to speak up. You’ve never had an encounter like this, so you’re pretty uncertain of what you should do. It doesn’t help when he decides to simply stand around and fidget with his clothes instead of actually saying something. Against your better judgement, you decide to initiate the conversation.

“Did your parents ever teach you that when you intentionally try to grab someone’s attention it’s usually because you want to tell them something? Or are you just stupid?” Behind his sunglasses, you can see his eyebrows furrow as he processes your words.

 “Don’t go shitting on my parents if yours couldn’t manage to get you to understand that stealing is wrong, dude.” He stops his fidgeting to shift his weight to one hip while crossing his arms, as if his quip has explained everything in the goddamn universe.

“What?”

“The flowers, man. You didn’t think I was some old fairy hag that came and magic’ed up a new set of flowers fresh for the picking after each and every one of your visits, did you?” The boy’s mouth creeps into a sly smile. You don’t really get the sudden change in attitude, but you try to play along.

“That sounds like something a crusty old fairy hag would say.”

“Well shit,” he throws his hands up in the air, feigning exasperation, “my cover’s been blown. Call up the Tooth Fairy and tell her I can’t come back to the office anymore because I can’t show my face around those parts; humans know who I am now. I’m going to die in a gutter somewhere in Fairy World, flat-out broke and alone, all because of you and your snarky comebacks.” He doesn’t wait for you to grace him with a response before walking past, in the direction you were originally headed. You feel obligated to catch up, and mutter a few curses under your breath for having to run in this wretched June heat.

Finally falling into step with the stranger, you try to pick up the conversation again.

“So, any reason in particular you felt like hunting me down? I’m kind of surprised you didn’t whip out a shotgun and share some lovingly-crafted death threats with me.” You finish with a shrug.

“I’m waiting for the right moment to do that kind of shit. You’ll turn your back for a second to sniff those flowers and next thing you know a gunshot’ll ring out and Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek” will be blaring as I laugh while watching the life bleed from your eyes, or something equally as tragic.” At a loss of words, you shoot him a murderous glare. He holds his hands up towards you in a defensive manner.

“Fine, fine, I’m just messing around. The story goes a bit like this. I was plucking some weeds on the far side of my house’s garden, jamming to some dank tunes,” he gestures to his headphones, “when some doom-and-gloom-looking fucker waltzes over, a little distance away-- I was kind of out of their sight, though.” Doom-and-gloom? The fuck? You’re wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, not sporting heavy black eyeliner and goth gear. “At first I think, hmm, maybe Jade has a visitor? She probably knows like half the world’s population, so it wouldn’t be that much of a shock. Hell, it could’ve been for John or Rose too, but they ain’t up much for socializing at home, usually.” You have no idea who Jade, John, and Rose are, but you don’t want to interrupt. He keeps barreling onwards, “But anyways, what do you know, this dude gets a good grip on some of the results of my hours upon hours of dirt manipulation, and fucking yanks them out. No mercy whatsoever to those things, either. Like a cold-blooded flower assassin. A hydrangea hitman. A morning glory murderer. Some other catchy nickname involving plant names and synonyms for ‘killer’.”

“Get to the goddamn point, _please_ ,” you finally are pushed enough to snap.

“Chill.” He’s pushed a little sideways when you shoulder him for that response. He lightly chuckles, but actually listens to your previous request.

“So I realize I’m getting the chance to meet this twisted crook who’s been causing so much goddamn grief with Jade due to their occasional garden assaults, and I decided to tag along behind you and see where you’re headed. Honestly surprised you didn’t hear me stomping along.” He pauses. “Be thankful I caught you and Jade didn’t, by the way. The girl treats the house’s garden like her firstborn child instead of a non-sentient patch of dirt. You would’ve lost a limb if she had watched you snatch up those flowers, trust me.”

“Okay?” You draw out the “O”, begging for a little more clarification for what exactly this guy is doing here.

“To tell you the truth, I just wanted to see who you’re investing all our flowers on-- I don’t even really feel like snitching. Considering the number of times you’ve looted our place though, this girl you’re visiting had better be really fucking pretty.” You splutter in surprise. He thinks you’re trying to seduce some girl? This is a huge misunderstanding, oh god.

Now you’re waving your hands frantically as you try to explain, “No, no, you’ve got this wrong--”

“I mean you took my red peonies this time. First and foremost those represent honor and wealth, but considering they’ve got a secondary meaning of romance and compassion, you two must be getting pretty serious.”

“For fuck’s sake--”

“Look at you tiger, wooing the lady with flowers. I bet she swoons into a steamy pile every time you shyly hand over these plants. I can see it now. ‘Here, Hot Lady, take these flowers I _totally_ didn’t mooch out of some stranger’s garden…’”

“You don’t even know me; what the hell is with that impersonation attempt?!”

He comes to an abrupt halt and lets out a shrill moan while flinging an arm over his eyes, obviously trying to mockingly swoon. You facepalm and keep walking.

You know he has caught back up with you when you hear footsteps to your left.

“Are you headed to a picnic with her or something? You don’t have a basket or anything. Nada. Talk about underprepared.”

You don’t have enough energy to keep trying to clarify what you’re doing if he won’t listen, so you eloquently mutter back, “Shut up.” He ignores your reply, and keeps talking.

“I bet you guys have a secret spot up ahead. You both sit there and talk about your _feelings_ , and _kiss_ , and do all the kinda sappy, lovey-dovey things couples do.” He proceeds to go on and on and on about the adventures you and your imaginary datemate partake in.

You’re starting to wish this guy had actually brought a shotgun instead of his irritating monologues.

“I think the big question here is whether or not she’s touched your butt yet--” It’s time to put your foot down, holy shit.

While walking, you side-eye the stranger as you interrupt, “--Okay! Let’s stop this disaster before its damage and death toll rises any higher! Considering you’ve given me little to no time to speak, let alone breathe, allow me at least once to elaborate on what the fuck I’m doing here.” Surprisingly, he clams up and nods.

“Point number one,” you thrust your index finger towards his face, “There is no girl.”

“Dude. Seriously?” He genuinely looks dumbfounded. Jackass. “You let me rattle on for like five minutes about her and she’s apparently only a figment of my overactive imagination?”

“Again, refer to that one particular sentence in one of my previous statements, douchebag! Maybe you should work on your listening skills, for once. God knows it’d do miracles for your social abilities.” You can vaguely see him roll his eyes as he snorts and nods.

“Point number two,” your index finger now has your middle finger for company, “These flowers have no deeper meaning behind them. I just needed something pretty, so these work fine. Not everybody knows the profound symbolism behind a pansy or daffodil, or whatever goddamn types of flowers you and your pals stock in that place.”

“Fair enough.”

You subconsciously note the gradual increase in the ground’s slope as you trek side-by-side.

“And the most important point of them all, point number three,” your ring finger joins the party, “I’m here to visit my brother.”

The stranger scoffs, “What? And you brought flowers for him?” You both reach the top of the small hill and pause. The boy tilts his head, thoroughly confused as he asks, “Where exactly is he, then?”

“Right over there.” You point downwards, towards the cemetery that the hill overlooks.

The blond goes silent.

Sighing, you resume your stride. You carefully make your way down the hill. Your company quietly follows behind. Your movements are automatic as you slide your way between tombstones, and finally come to a halt in front of a slate gray, unassuming grave marker. Kneeling down, you gently place your flowers in front of the stone slab, then stand up to brush your knees off. The pressure of a hand on your shoulder nearly causes you to flinch, but you stay still. Both of you stand in silence for a while. It feels like you’re coming out of a trance when your guest begins to speak.

“You’re one of the Vantas boys, right? This’ll be hella awkward if I’m wrong.” You meekly nod. It’s not even worth it to correct him in saying that you’re actually the ‘Vantas boy.’ Singular. Not plural. Your chest hurts a bit when you think about that, but you’ve swallowed down the majority of that kind of pain years ago.

“There was a high school bombing about three years ago, yeah?” He says it softly, as if you’re a small animal that’s about to sprint the hell out of dodge the second he uses his normal volume. God, you hate that tone of voice.

“Yeah, there was. Him,” you gesture towards the grave, “and eleven others got blown to bits.” Pointing your chin up, you make an effort to look him in the eyes.

“Interesting choice in phrasing. But sure.” The blonde nods, pats your shoulder once, and drags his arm away. The absence of his arm’s weight makes you feel weirdly lopsided, and for some reason you have an itch to reach over and place his hand right back where it was. You don’t, though.

“Isn’t your dad a preacher? Why the hell is…” the stranger leans forward to read the name on the tombstone, “Kankri over here? Shouldn’t he be in your church’s graveyard?”

“Kankri wasn’t religious. He never went to church, or prayed in general. I don’t think he ever even really bought into the ideas of heaven or hell, God or Satan, or whatever the fuck else reflects Christian ideology. He was pretty focused on the corporeal aspects of life. Dad never really tried to impose on Kankri’s beliefs, so it felt better to bury his remains out here. We’ll probably join him out here too, some day. There are too many shabby corpses piled up in the graveyard anyways.”

The other boy hums understandingly. Your conversation trails off again, and you feel obligated to try and keep things moving along.

“You know… This year I’m the same age that he was when he died. Kind of weird, right?” Opting to stare at the ground beneath you rather than at the stranger, you kick around a tuft of grass. “He’d be 21 if he was still around… He’d probably go on rants about the importance of sustaining sobriety and then accidently chug three glasses of wine in less than an hour. He’d rant for hours about the prime candidate to vote for in presidential elections in order to achieve satisfaction and success in every socioeconomic class, and then be swayed to vote for someone else in the next fucking ten minutes. He’d treat everyone around him like little kids, even though he wouldn’t even have the remotest idea of how to act like their adult.” You let out a humorless laugh. “He’d be a self-contradicting crock of horseshit, but he’d be _my_ self-contradicting crock of horseshit brother.” Why the hell are your shoulders shaking. Urgh. Where the hell is all this coming from? Maybe it’s the fact that this is the first time anyone has come with you to visit Kankri? You really want to stop talking, but you really don’t want to, either. This monologue is not over yet, you swear to fuck. Your inhale is a bit erratic.

You wish you could knock yourself out with something heavy in order to put a halt to the seemingly endless flow of saccharine word vomit coming out of your wordhole.

“There were times where I thought that I despised him when he was living, considering his self-righteous savior complex was a massive pain in the ass for every party affiliated with him. But now? Now I just miss him.”

You don’t even bother to struggle away when the stranger wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a hug. He doesn’t tell you that he’s sorry for you, or whisper that cliché horseshit about Kankri forever being in your heart or whatever the fuck, and that is a thousand times better than any response you could have hoped for. You appreciate his trap remaining shut for once, and you willingly overlook the grody sensation of moist limbs rubbing against your already-damp back. The other boy sways his feet side to side a bit, and you can’t help but sway with him as your arms creep upwards into a reciprocating hug. Your head is perched by his shoulder (but not on, considering your ridiculous height difference) when it something occurs to you.

“I’ve been babbling to you like some heartbroken asscactus for the past few minutes, and I don’t even know what your name is.”

“Maybe it’ll stay that way, if it means I get to actually listen to some heartfelt speeches rather than fifty billion vulgar remarks,” he playfully mutters back. You lightly slap him on the back.

He pulls one arm out of your hug, leaving his right arm hanging over your shoulders as he looks down at you.

“Okay, okay. It’s Dave.”

“Dave what?”

“Dave Strider.”

“You’ve got to be joking. ‘Strider?’ As a last name?”

“Build a time machine and go back to laugh at my ancestors, not me. I’m just a humble guy that lives in a house in the middle of nowhere with three of his friends.” Dave’s expression looks mildly constipated as you figuratively elbow him over his name.

“Fine, I’ll believe you. For now.” You take a breath to ask him more about himself when he cuts you off.

“So, are you gonna share your first name? Or am I just gonna call you Vantas like some nightmare-ish middle-aged gym coach you had in the 6th grade, who took everything way too seriously?” You nearly forgot.

“Oh, it’s Karkat.”

“I don’t even want to know how many ‘car plus cat’ jokes you’ve heard in your lifetime.”

“If I got a quarter for every time I heard one of those jokes, I’d have enough coins to fill up a sock and use it as a weapon to beat the shit out of anyone who made that joke ever again.”

“Violent and vicious. I like.” His eyebrows twitch up and down, and you can’t help but snicker at how ridiculous he looks.

The conversation dies out, and you can’t help but notice how much lighter you feel. The emotional baggage you carry is never considered light-weight, but sharing it with an actual person rather than a slab of rock is apparently a thousand times more effective than you would have expected. You hum some dumb tune you probably heard on the radio a long time ago, oddly at ease.

Dave nudges you.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you mumble back, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“I dunno about you, but I feel like we’ve maxed our time out here on this feels trip.”

“What the fuck-- _feels trip_?”

“‘Feels trip’? It sounds like ‘field trip’? We journeyed who-knows-how-far out into a cemetery in a field to have an emotional moment?” You stare, trying to channel your disappointment through his thick skull telepathically.

“Man, whatever. I tried.” He waves a hand lazily, clearly abandoning ship. “Back to the point, though; I think it’s time we head out.” You look around the cemetery, and nod in agreement.

“Uh, sure. I guess I needed to head home anyways.” Dave now shifts his weight side-to-side, hands clenching and unclenching, trying to say something. You smirk at his self-conflict.

“Just spit it out, Dave.”

“How about you take a detour to my house first?” He rushes the question, and it comes out in a jumbled slurry that you miraculously manage to decipher.

“What... kind of detour?” You ask, uncertainty etched across your face. Dave catches his suggestive mistake and mentally stutters for a moment, finally forming an answer.

“Not the kind that ends with either of us cramming a dick up our ass. At least not today.” He finishes with a cheesy wink. You burst out laughing, then promptly choke on your own spit. He chuckles at your fuck-up. You eventually quiet down, and he elaborates.

“Nah, I’d just let you meet those guys I was talking about earlier. The ones I live with, y’know. Maybe we’d eat some food and chill. I dunno.”

“Well…” You furrow your eyebrows in contemplation, “as much as I was enthralled by your absolutely _articulate_ and _coherent_ proposal, there’s still one tie-breaking question.”

“Shit, let’s hear it then.” He shrugs.

“...Are you going to sick Jade on my ass for the flowers?” Dave pauses for a moment, then turns away.

He makes the motion of zipping his lips, locks the nonexistent keyhole at the corner of his mouth, takes the imaginary key, winds his arm back, and hurls it as far as it will go. Casually dusting off his hands, he turns to face you.

“Then it’s settled.” You walk closer to him, and loop an arm through his. “I would be de-fucking-lighted to visit your house.” He grins down at you.

“Alright. Let’s bounce.”

**Author's Note:**

> ahahahahAHAH this feels so OOC i want to bang my head on something how does one write these knightly douchebags
> 
> but moving on
> 
> i wrote this entire thing on a whim (like i do with practically every fic i write), so there are errors, there are confusing spots, i know, i know. this is unbeta'd and i'm not searching for a beta, so i'm sorry about typos and other fuck-ups, but they are guaranteed to happen despite me trying to catch them all
> 
> this fic has been wasting away in my google docs account for like a month now so tonight i just thought 'fuck it,' added an ending, and post-vomited it onto this vast website. so enjoy. yeehaw, yo. i've been working on something else that requires an p dang different writing style so finishing this thing up was hella confusing. but here it is. 8^y
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
